


Fealty

by gardnerhill



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bathing/Washing, M/M, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 15:48:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1693868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aragorn's needed this for the last two movies - oh, and sex would be nice too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fealty

**Author's Note:**

> Set immediately after the Battle of Helm's Deep as depicted in Peter Jackson's film _The Two Towers_.
> 
> Warnings: m/m, m/m/m, interspecies intercourse, consensual multi-partner bathing. May contain some Elvish. Based on the Peter Jackson films, so homophobic fanboys and book purists alike will be super-offended.

Most slept where they fell that bright day in Helm's Deep, a deathlike sleep so deep that nightmares could not find and trouble them; not even the presence of a Wizard, a forest that moved and trees that slew could disturb them away from their rest. Aragorn walked through a sea of such, distinguishable from the dead only in that they breathed.

 

Aragorn attended a mercifully brief audience with Theoden, Gandalf, and Eomer, all of them still in their battle-stained armour and clothing. Voice heavy with exhaustion, Theoden ordered their return to Edoras to commence no sooner than a week's time. There was much to be done – people and horses to be rested and fed, the wounded to tend, the slain to bury – but for now there was a breath of time in which to recover. Theoden then rose and left to see to the wounded, accompanied by Gamling.

 

Aragorn followed the King to the great hall that now served as the house of healing. As he knew he would, he found his fellow travellers assisting the healers by binding wounds and setting bones. Gimli bore a bandage round his own head; Aragorn remembered the Dwarf's mighty leap upon the enemy to bring aid to the fighters below, and his own stab of dread at witnessing what he was sure would be a friend's death. With a silent blessing for Gimli's own sturdy Dwarf craftsmanship that had fashioned his helm and armour, Aragorn bent to attend to the nearest of the groaning Men.

 

And sank to the floor.

 

He looked up. Someone was talking to him. He was sure of it, for the man obscured his sight. Man? Red hair. Red beard. Bandage. Good Dwarf armour, still spattered with black blood. Brown eyes, glaring down at him.

 

"...to your quarters and rest, or by Durin's axe I'll drag you there by the hair!" Gimli roared.

 

Gimli was angry about something.

 

Hands on his arms lifting him upright. Slim and strong as a willow tree, unmoving as he lurched against that support. Hair like sunlight, eyes like the sky. Fingers entwining with his from beneath, slender fingers he knew to each bowstring callus. Worry and love in that sky gaze – Legolas, _mellonin_ , why so troubled? The Elf spoke, but to Gimli alone, and Aragorn was relieved that he need not find words to speak just yet.

 

Another approached, speaking to Legolas. The lady of Meduseld, the King's niece; he knew her name, but she was gone before he could recall it to mind. Now Legolas was beside him, leading him away from the hall. But there were injured to tend, and he had to relay the King's latest council to his friends, and there was the damaged Wall to survey, and the dead, oh the dead...

 

They were at his quarters, a small suite of rooms near the King's own chambers. It was scantily furnished, bearing only a bed, a press, and a trestle-style table with two long benches and one ornately carved chair at the table's head. A fire had been laid in the grate, just catching from the kindling; someone had been there but minutes before to prepare the room. The room was still chilled from the long rain-filled night.

 

Everything swam before Aragorn's eyes. He had fought in all-night battles before. But he had never before battled all night after surviving a plunge off a cliff, a near-drowning, and then a long, painful, provisionless two-day ride to the battle site. He wondered if he would even notice was he to find himself wandering the grey halls of Mandos.

 

He looked at Legolas. The Elf was back to his light Mirkwood tunic, his war-armour shed. Bruises and cuts marred his hands from his constant knife-work of the long night, but they were as clean as they had been at Elrond's Council. Aragorn's battle-grimed hands once again sullied the strong slender fingers of his friend.

 

"Gimli will come here with our meal," Legolas said. "Would you like to wash?"

 

A wash. That would be good. " _Nä. Hantale, mellonin._ " His voice was hoarse from shouting orders and war-cries all night, bruised by the foul smoke from the explosives; Elvish was easier to remember right now, more natural in such a time, kinder in the mouth and on the tongue than the more guttural Common.

 

The adjoining washroom in his quarters was Rohan-style, with no tub; it contained a gently sloping floor that led toward a central drain, a bathing stool and lidded wooden bucket, an empty copper over an unlit fire, and a few shelves containing washcloths and drying-sheets. Steam rose in curls from under the bucket lid, another gift of the recently departed attendant. _Hot_ water.

 

"One bucket of water?" Legolas sounded as angry as Gimli.

 

"Others need the water more." The underground lake that supplied water for Helm's Deep had not been destroyed in the battle as had the fortress' central aquifer drain, but the labour to heat the water and to carry it, already cruelly thinned by the night's battle, had been diverted to more pressing needs, as had the water itself – feeding and watering people and horses, tending the injured and the dead.

 

"You should have a tub," Legolas said, his eyes still dark with anger. "Your wounds would do better for a long soak."

 

For a stray light-headed moment, Aragorn wanted to say that he had indeed gotten a good soaking in the river when he fell from the cliff still tangled in the Warg's harness. "Am I to be in luxury while others go without?"

 

Legolas turned his head aside, face still angry. He wanted to say "yes," it was in every line of his body.

 

" _Melamin_ ," Aragorn said softly, moved. "Would a Man who could do such a thing be someone you could love as you do me?"

 

Legolas turned back to face Aragorn. Love did shine from those eyes, but so did pride. "You have been a King this past night," the Elf said fiercely, "and you will always be my King even if crown and throne are never given you."

 

Warmth flooded the Man's battered body. And a spark of something in his heart – the same spark he had felt, though wrapped in grief, when Boromir had pledged his own fealty as his last words. It was an urge, not for the helm but to serve such followers wisely and well...an urge to die rather than to betray the trust and belief of those who loved and followed him.

 

What is it to be a King? Surely, it is this.

 

Legolas bowed his head before Aragorn. "Son of Arathorn, I wish to tend to you – as I have longed to do since your arrival in Helm's Deep."

 

Aragorn smiled at the peaceful light in his friend's eyes, his anger at a perceived slight vanished. He had been irritated by Legolas' persistent demand that Aragorn rest, eat something, not push onward so relentlessly after his near-death and flight to the fortress. There had been no time to rest, to heal the wounds amassed during the Warg attack and his fall. Now, there was only time to rest and heal, and right now he craved a bath almost more than he craved sleep. "I accept your service, son of Thranduil."

 

With no other words Legolas led Aragorn back to the outer room and undid every article of apparel the Man wore, from belt to boots, metal to leather to linen. When Aragorn was naked save for the Evenstar shining unsullied upon his breast, Legolas stripped as well – keeping a sharp eye on his charge lest Aragorn fall again from weariness.

 

They returned to the washroom, and at Legolas' indication Aragorn sat on the bathing stool. The Elf knelt and removed the wooden lid from the steaming water bucket, atop which rested the soap, a dipper, and one of the fibrous gourds the Rohirrim grew and dried to use like sponges. Before washing a single wound, Legolas soaked the sponge in the clean steaming water and squeezed it several times over Aragorn's entire body. The Man tilted his head back in bliss to receive a stream of the water full on his face. He did not have the strength to stand again, but Legolas was with him.

 

Legolas finally lathered the sponge and set to work; Aragorn felt the sweat and filth and blood of battle slough away under the ministrations of the Elf. The sponge felt like a handful of dry grass; the soap was a rough grey block, the same material that was used for washing horses and clothes. This was the finest ablution he had ever had.

 

Aragorn did nothing but sit and breathe; Legolas did everything else – lather, scrub, and a dipperful of water to rinse. Even for the most intimate moments of the bath – face and genitals – Aragorn only closed his eyes and leaned forward or back at a murmured request, to let a soft bathing-cloth and a sure hand do its work there. Such strong hands Legolas had, the hands of an Elf more at ease holding a bow than a harp; hands that could slit Orc throats one moment, and the next gently lay a cherished jewel into a friend's rough, bloodied hand...He winced as his hands were washed; the warm water stung in his gouged knuckles.

 

"There may be a place on your body that bears neither bruise nor wound," Legolas said lightly, his sponge moving up Aragorn's arm and around the abraded shoulder. "I shall let you know if I find one."

 

Aragorn nodded, eyes closed in thrall to the simple earthy pleasures of hot water and clean skin. But something niggled at his mind, prodded, and finally the thought worked its way past the dead exhaustion and aches. He opened his eyes even as Legolas began sponging down his back. "Have you and Gimli had chance to rest?" It was remiss of him not to ask beforehand; a leader saw to his own comfort only after his people were safe, and especially after his most faithful soldiers had been tended.

 

"Gimli and I have been given quarters with the _éored_. We will dine with you here, and can share this washroom as well. Gimli now knows that Elves do not lick themselves clean like cats."

 

Aragorn grinned at the memory of that particular exchange from the days just after they left Rivendell. The coldly-polite distance between the Elven archer and the Dwarf warrior had lessened greatly during their fight with the cave troll and their race after the Uruks; their shared passion for slaughtering foul creatures had sealed a bond between the most unlikely pair of friends in the Fellowship. "Dwarvish scepticism is understandable, my friend. It takes a great deal to soil an Elf."

 

"That is not true," Legolas said demurely. "It takes very little to soil a Man."

 

Aragorn laughed. "Rangers do not have access to Elven halls in the wood whenever they require a bath." A vast, beautiful relief – "Ah, there!"

 

Legolas scrubbed that particular spot on the Man's back for a long time. "When you are ready for me to stop this, I will wash your hair," said the Elf.

 

"Then my hair will never be clean," Aragorn murmured, head forward.

 

A delicious hot smell entered the bathing room. "Aragorn!" boomed Gimli's voice in the outer room.

 

Both Aragorn and Legolas laughed. "We're in here, Gimli!" Aragorn called.

 

"And we are bathing," said Legolas, "so you may see more of a Man and an Elf than you care to if you join us!"

 

"It's about time! I draw the line at being able to _smell_ my King from a bowshot away!"

 

Aragorn smiled till he thought his cheeks would ache; battered and exhausted though he still was, his heart lifted. Boromir's vow had been made in grief. Legolas had pledged his with love. Now Gimli had sworn his amid good rough Dwarf humour. "Will either of you give offence if you sleep other than with the _éored_ tonight?" he said, suddenly aching for his friends' company. "I would share these quarters with you."

 

"Offence?" Gimli rumbled, appearing in the doorway, looking grimly contented despite the bandage round his head. "They'll be glad for the extra room. I'll have them bring our baggage up here." He turned to murmur, no doubt to the servants who had brought the delicious smell. When Gimli turned back he held a bath bucket in each hand. "Yours and mine, Master Elf! And this is a good deal more private than the Riders' bathing room." Gimli's hands had been clean to tend the wounded, but his own battle-grime still lay heavily upon the rest of him, including spots of black blood staining a proud Dwarf's beard. "When we are done here, food for three hungry soldiers has been laid on the board and awaits us."

 

Aragorn nodded, his head still down. He could smell his own rank locks of hair dangling around his face. And yet, what Legolas was doing to that spot on his back was so wonderful he didn't want it to end, even for the next vital stage of his bath.

 

The scrubbing stopped. His back was bereft. But before he could mourn the loss of the sensation, the scratching resumed, strong and hearty as ever, if not stronger. Bliss.

 

But a dipperful of warm water now trickled through his hair, and slender strong fingers rubbed the water into his scalp. That meant— "Gimli, you need not–"

 

"And let the Elf do a half-finished job of washing you?" Gimli snapped from just behind Aragorn. The pile of battle-stained clothing in the doorway – charmingly topped by a worn pair of red-striped stockings – meant that the Dwarf was now as naked as the other two. "Your legs and feet still need to be washed – and if I can persuade you to tip forward a little more, I can make sure your arse is clean as well!"

 

Aragorn stifled a snort of laughter.

 

"Gimli!” Legolas removed his hands from Aragorn's hair and took up the soap. “That word—“

 

"Pah! Dwarves have arses, horses have arses, Kings have arses. Even stiff-necked and stubborn Elves have arses, Legolas!"

 

"That a particular body part exists does not mean that it must be mentioned repeatedly," Legolas said sternly, his fingers now laden with soapy lather as they returned to Aragorn's wet hair. “Some things are not featured in recitations in the Hall of Fire,”

 

"Elves' loss," Gimli said cheerily, scrubbing the flank and thigh of his charge even as Legolas continued his brisk lathering of the Man's head. "Many of the best Dwarf poems make proud mention of that stalwart portion."

 

Tended at each end, Aragorn felt not unlike a horse with two grooms – and in Rohan, where horses were esteemed so highly and tended so lovingly, that was not a bad feeling at all. "Men too make some short verses upon the theme – inappropriate for recital in courteous company." Aragorn opened his eyes and glared sidelong at Gimli. "I am _always_ in courteous company, son of Glóin."

 

Gimli laughed. "Your princely way of saying that wild Wargs couldn't drag it out of –"

 

The fingers in Aragorn's hair stiffened.

 

Gimli drew in a loud breath, face stricken. He dropped the sponge and took Aragorn's hand in both of his. "Forgive me for that thoughtless remark, my friend!"

 

Aragorn gripped Gimli's big rough hands – hands that looked thick and clumsy but which could deal surgically precise axe-blows, and had been so gentle tending the wounded and bathing a friend. "It is an old saying in Common Speech, Gimli. We are all tired. I took no offence. There is nothing to forgive."

 

"We thought you dead, laddie," Gimli whispered. "Two days we mourned you."

 

Legolas finally spoke, and his voice was a thread. "I wished to die of my grief. But you would have us aid the King of Rohan, so I did not."

 

None of them spoke for a long moment, the only sound the soft splash of the water in the bucket. But ice had filled Aragorn's stomach at the Elf's flat recitation. Gimli would have wailed and wept the loss of a friend as he had in Moria, and afterward would have laughed with surviving friends and raised a beer-mug in his honour. But the Eldar could will themselves to die if their hearts were broken. This was not the first time Legolas had experienced the loss of a friend, but he had said no such thing while they had mourned Gandalf.

 

His hand still gripping both of Gimli's, Aragorn summoned everything he had left inside him to reach his other hand up and clasp Legolas' wrist. "I am very glad you did not, my friend. That you both have survived this night with me is joy beyond telling."

 

After a very long silence, Gimli snorted, and picked up the sponge again. "Hmph! I wasn't about to let an Elf best my number of Orc kills by mere virtue of outliving me on the field!"

 

"Nor would I suffer a Dwarf to prove superior in that regard either," Legolas replied coolly, his fingers again massaging Aragorn's scalp.

 

Aragorn felt the pair of them resume their ministrations to him in the same way they continued their affectionate parody of their races' antagonism. But the hands on him were warmer, gentler, caressing wounds and not merely washing them. Amused and touched, Aragorn leaned forward into Legolas' arms to be pulled semi-upright, so that Gimli could indeed ensure the cleanliness of the contentious body part; he sank back down on the stool to let his friends complete their task. Legolas poured the remaining water from the bucket over his head and down his body; Gimli embraced Aragorn with the drying-sheet he held in his arms, a strong hand touseling his head under the sheet to dry his hair.

 

The smell of the stew wrapped around him like the sheet, but it was too much work to eat now. He only wanted one thing, but the words would not come any more; his bones seemed to have melted.

 

"...have him... ...other side..."

 

Two trees bore him up as he sank into darkness, a gnarled oak and a slim unbreakable willow.

 

***

 

Freezing rain poured over them in sheets, roars of hate beat at the walls like a living beast, thickets of Orc arrows raked them. The enemy was upon them in such numbers as he had never seen in all his long life as a warrior.

 

Gandalf fell first, toppling from his place holding the gateway, an Uruk engine following him down into fire and thunder. Boromir slew a dozen before Orc archers dropped him. Frodo and Sam were gone, Merry and Pippin plucked screaming from the wall and dragged away. Keeping one arm around Gimli, he seized the rope Legolas threw to him, and he began to climb. His foot lost its grip and the rope jerked. Gimli slipped from his grasp and fell with a yell onto the spear-points waiting below. He looked up and saw, clear as daylight, the look of disbelief on Legolas' face as the berserker behind him drove its sword into his back.

 

He let go of the rope even as it rattled down past him; he clung to the wall like a beetle, arrows and spears rattling all around him, Men screaming on the wall above as they were picked off one by one. They were all gone, all dead, those he had been tasked to lead and keep safe, he had failed and there was no one left but him, proof of Isildur's foul taint. The rain chilled him to the bone, and when he could no longer feel the wall he too would fall to his death. "Forgive me," he whispered to the retreating form of an Elf maiden boarding a white ship in the Havens, a stone-faced Elrond glaring at him even as he helped her aboard; "forgive me," to the dead staring eyes of Elves who should have lived to World's end and beyond who now filled the trenches before the Wall, "forgive me," to the lost Wizard, the arrow-riddled Steward's son, the vanished Hobbits, the Dwarf torn limb from limb by snarling Orcs, the contorted body of the Elf, "forgive me, forgive me..."

 

Strong hot hands took his wrists and pulled him to safety behind the parapet. Strong arms embraced him in front and behind. A beloved voice whispered in his ear. "Peace, peace, Estel, there is nothing to forgive." It was Legolas; he had not been slain.

 

"We are safe. You have saved us," said another loved voice, rougher and deeper. Gimli had not fallen to his impalement and devouring by the enemy. "Peace, my friend."

 

They had never lied to him. Those images of their deaths had been lies. They were safe, and he was with them. Their warmth around him was a living thing, firing his heart once again with courage.

 

Gimli pressed a long-handled hatchet into one hand and Legolas pressed one of his white knives into his other hand. He turned to face the enemy once again, unafraid; he struck with both weapons at once, and a battalion of Uruks fell dead.

 

***

  
He could not remember a time when he had slept so deeply and so long that he did not instantly know what day it was let alone what time of day. He ached everywhere, he was fiercely hungry, and profound sorrow lay upon his heart. He recognised every sign at once: _It is the aftermath of a great battle and I live._

 

He was not alone in his bed – and there was more than one adding warmth and closeness to his rest. If there had been any doubt about the identity of his companions, the wonderful familiar sound of Dwarf snoring that issued from the stout body at his right removed it. Gimli had made good use of his water bucket; his beard gleamed like a red pelt on his broad chest. His friends had stayed with him.

 

" _Mae govannin, Estel_."

 

"Legolas," he murmured, turning toward the body to his left, slimmer but with the same wonderful warmth, and the shining eyes. "How long?"

 

"You have slept a full Sun's travel. Gimli has slept nearly that length as well." Legolas looked over at the sleeping Dwarf with the same tender expression.

 

He had slept all day, and all through the night to day again. He sat up. "There is so much to –" His eyes widened as the single greatest need instantly gained his attention, and he laughed. Legolas laughed too, and made way to let Aragorn up and into the necessity. There was no discomfort in crossing the room in naught but his skin; the suite had been well warmed by the hearth fire and no chill remained in the air.

 

When he came back he saw that his linens and outer clothing lay clean, if still damp, and neatly folded on a chest beside a dry clean woollen robe. Clean clothes on a body clean to his very hair: this morning promised a plethora of luxuries.

 

Aragorn looked at the three covered dishes still upon the table. "You did not eat?"

 

"As with you, another need pressed the greater upon us both," said Legolas, rising from the bed as naked as when he had bathed Aragorn. The archer’s own clothing lay clean and folded on a chair beside a similar robe. "Eomer says that the King's orders are that neither you nor he are to be disturbed until consent is given, save at the greatest need. All are in repose but for the guard and those tending the wounded."

 

Elves, even battle-worn and heartsore Elves, did not need sleep the way mortals did; a very little of the deepest somnolence sufficed. Legolas must have been out and inquiring of the King for him to gather this intelligence – and he waited to dine with his friends though he must surely be as famished, even to the point of rejoining them in rest.

 

"Theoden King will not long remain in repose," said Aragorn. "I must place myself at his disposal." There were a hundred things to do, and a hundred after that. He would eat his cold stew quickly and go. "You should stay here with Gimli for now, and rest; I will send word if you are needed."

 

"He is a stubborn Ranger, Legolas," Gimli said, opening his eyes.

 

"He is a King, Gimli," Legolas said. "He must see to the needs of all others before tending to his own."

 

"Son of Glóin," Aragorn said, "and son of Thranduil, my needs have been most well-met. I am clean and have slept long and well, warmed by the same comrades who tended to my bath."

 

"You were still cold under the furs, lad," Gimli said, and glared at the walls around them, but poorly covered with a few hasty tapestries. "Rohan Men might as well have built this fortress of ice blocks – this is what comes of not asking Dwarves for advice and assistance with stone-masonry!"

 

"We had finished our own baths," Legolas added, "and we agreed that sharing your bed would keep all three of us warmer."

 

"And so did we sleep, bundled together like Hobbits," Gimli said, grinning.

 

Aragorn grinned as well, but the memory of the four Hobbits sleeping close together for warmth and comfort on the frightening journey pierced his heart. Sam was with Frodo and would tend him; Merry and Pippin they would soon see.

 

He remembered the dream, and the way the terrible images and his grief had vanished. "You also whispered comfort in my sleeping ears and gave a nightmare a peaceful ending. Both of you."

 

Legolas looked at him with love.

 

"There's nightmare enough in a real battle," Gimli said in a gruff tone. "You don't need its ugliness in your dreams."

 

Aragorn nodded to both; Legolas, he clasped hand to shoulder. He reached down to take up his damp linens. "Then once I dine, all needs are met."

 

"All," Gimli rumbled. "Save one." He sat up in the bed. The thick pelts of bear and mountain sheep did not disguise what lay hidden beneath.

 

Aragorn set down his linens quickly at this display of Dwarvish candour (he had far too much control of self to let his linens _drop_ in surprise, as a lesser Man might have done). A faint whimsical part of his mind commented that here indeed was yet another body part not celebrated in song in the Hall of Fire. What would Legolas say now?

 

But Legolas still stood before Aragorn with nary a rebuke on his lips. The Elf’s eyes glowed. And his own virile member rose as if standing in unison with the Dwarf on this matter. Elves were far better controllers of their masculine reactions than were either Dwarves or Men; but they too yearned, as Aragorn knew well. "There is no reason not to attend to all hungers in this room," said Legolas.

 

All hungers. Aragorn kept his eyes level with Legolas even as his own ache grew – an ache not in his heart, and not physically caused by Orcs. The Elf knew how body-hunger took the Man after a battle; and this battle had been their deadliest.

 

Gimli arose from the bed, naked and stout-staffed as he was, and walked not to the other two but to the table. There he lifted their covered stew bowls and set them into the bronze warmer rings set over short fat candles. "We will dine, together, when the food is warm once again,” he said as he lit the candles. Only then did he turn and face his companions. “Meantime–“ He slapped his hip, beaming at both of them, "we should heat ourselves together as well!"

 

Legolas said nothing. He would not gainsay his King in this matter. But his face pleaded for Aragorn’s consent.

 

The Ranger and the King debated each other, briefly but fiercely.

 

_These are my dear friends, my battle comrades. We have survived together and should celebrate together._

 

_They are our Fellowship, our followers, with us out of love and not obligation. Are we a Harad warlord to treat those under us like catamites waiting upon our lusts?_

_They have bathed me, warmed my body and eased my sleeping heart. Only a fool would call their acts those of obligation or duty to a King. Even now there is no obligation in their gazes, no obeisance in their flesh. This is an act of love they beg of a friend; an act of fellowship._

 

Aragorn’s other hand rose to take Legolas’ other shoulder in a warm clasp. His own upraised virile member nuzzled the Elf’s like kissing kinsmen.

 

The Elf beamed, and leaned forward to kiss Aragorn's mouth.

 

Gimli now joined them, clasping Man and Elf both at the waist in his stout hairy arms for a fierce embrace. "Come back to bed, laddie," the Dwarf said hoarsely against Aragorn's belly.

 

He was as defenceless against their love now as he had been when near death with exhaustion.

 

Aragorn lowered to take Gimli's mouth in a kiss. He felt Legolas' strong arms come round him from behind, the same arms that had pulled him and Gimli to safety during the battle. They were both hot against him, eager. The ache sprang up in him anew.

 

"To bed, my King," Gimli said, "to bed."

 

"My King," Legolas whispered, and kissed the neck he had washed.

 

Aragorn conceded the overwhelming numbers against him, and yielded to their commands.

 

***

 

The Evenstar lay hot upon his breast, a reminder of love and pain, both carried by him out of choice. Both his companions kissed the jewel, Gimli’s beard like rough wool against the Man's chest. "Her love for you will be ever green, _melamin_ ," Legolas said, and kissed the line between Aragorn's eyes. Gimli kissed Aragorn’s uplifted penis with no less tenderness.

 

This was no post-battle fury to wrestle and spend, nor rutting to spill seed instead of blood for a change. The unions among the three were as tender as the attentions to Aragorn at his bath. Not a wound among them remained unkissed; not an entryway but did not know another's easy touch.

 

Aragorn and Legolas shared history; this was not the first time they had joined after a battle. In their copulation was their shared memory of joyful tumbles in Estel’s youth, lying together after summer hunts, a glorious visit with the sons of Elrond that had blurred into days of passion among the four.

 

When Aragorn offered himself for the Dwarf's copulation, Gimli laid a firm hand on the Man's forearm and shook his shaggy red head, though his eyes twinkled. "We've taken aches enough for now, lad. Best to stay with what's kind to all parties." Aragorn inclined his head at the wisdom of his counsellor, and then bowed over the stout virile member to take it in his mouth instead; this, Gimli did not decline.

 

Fortunately, where a great-girthed Dwarf could not breach without complaint a more slender-membered Elf could pass without fear. Legolas pressed into Aragorn's nether heat and received only a groan of pleasure from the Man. Legolas whispered shared memories into his King's ear even as he thrust and slid through familiar portals, his tongue coming out to lick the stray drops of Gimli's seed from Aragorn's mouth and beard. His Estel groaned and laughed beneath him.

 

With Gimli's thighs wrapped around his and Legolas' chest against his back, Aragorn buried himself in the welcoming heat beneath him. "A magnificent leap," he said, kissing the solid line of callus down one broad thick palm where the axe-handle most often rested, and then bowing forward to kiss the Dwarf's bandaged head as well. "I despaired of your life when I saw it."

 

"An Uruk tried to part my hair, and only broke his blade upon good Dwarf smithwork." Gimli frowned and tightened his legs. "Ach, Aragorn, bring your hammer down harder than that, I'm no fragile Elf!"

 

"Nor am I a fragile Elf," said Legolas, still embracing Aragorn from behind. "But if we are to continue speaking in this fashion, Gimli, I believe that Aragorn is mindful of his hammer because his anvil is wholly occupied as well." Aragorn, wholly occupied, nodded agreement.

"And once again it must be a Dwarf that teaches proper smithing to both your races!" Gimli snapped, hauling himself into a partially-seated position that made Aragorn arch and gasp. "This way. First hammer bears second hammer down. Like forging a mithril blade. Take good hold, laddie – no, both hands. On the downstroke." Those strong axe-callused hands now held Aragorn's shoulders, bearing his entire weight. "Now, Legolas."

 

Legolas thrust into Aragorn, who thrust into Gimli a half-breath later, stroking down on the Dwarf's male flesh with both hands. And back, even as Legolas drew back a half-breath after, and upstroke. The Elf's thighs flexed and his hands tightened and pulled on the Man's hips to drive himself deeper and drive the Man deeper into the Dwarf; his back bowed and his hands pushed.

 

"Ah. That's it, lad! Master Elf. Oh. Oh..."

 

All three moved in the steady rhythm of a perfectly-balanced machine, copulating as smoothly together as they had fought. Gimli and Aragorn uttered gasps and cries of passion as they strove for the peak. The Elf's mouth was wholly occupied with the Man's shoulders and neck when it was not kissing the Dwarf's fingers; Legolas was as silent when he loved as when he slew.

 

Wholly embraced by his company, their pledges of fealty laid in his flesh, branded upon his heart –

 

Aragorn shouted and thrashed first in the grip of paroxysm, spending in Gimli while wrapped in Legolas' strong arms. He tightened and plucked at the slender virile between his haunches, and felt warmth fill him within even as hot thick clots spattered his belly and hands. Legolas's full weight bore down upon him as Gimli groaned and shuddered deeply, and his rigid arms gave way.

 

The three sank into the bed still braided together, weary now from pleasure beyond words. Love swelled in Aragorn like a Sea-tide; he held both tightly in his arms, kissing them over and over. "My brothers," he murmured, "my brothers." Both kissed him back, and each other as well; surely the first time in more than an Age that an Elf and Dwarf had kissed.

 

Elf and Dwarf were not so tender with each other. Aragorn sleepily watched Gimli and Legolas locked together and thrashing in the furs, grinning at each other, so in unity that he could not see which was within whom. He did catch a phrase or two in gutteral Dwarvish – it sounded like quotes from the aforementioned poems. But not even such a singular sight could deter him from taking rest he still sorely needed; Aragorn closed his eyes, lulled by the gentle rocking of the bedding.

 

"Come, lad. Let us break our fast at long last."

 

Once again the delicious hot smell awoke him, as did the feel of a bearded mouth on his and a brush through his hair. His head was in Legolas' lap for his grooming. Only as the Dwarf knelt up did Aragorn see that, like him, Gimli was naked save for one object around his neck – a small silver locket on a fine chain. Asking permission with his eyes, Aragorn reached one hand to the un-Dwarvenly plain bauble resting in the thick red pelt.

 

"It's a poor housing for such a treasure," Gimli said gruffly, looking down at the trinket in his King's hand. "Its proper resting place will be mithril and crystal. This will do for now."

 

The Lady's gift to the smitten Dwarf – the three strands of her golden hair. Aragorn smiled and knew that Legolas did as well.

 

Legolas drew the brush through Aragorn's hair one last time and set it down. "Even I can think of naught now but food. This promises to be the most welcome meal we have ever eaten."

 

Their long repose had given the fortress servants time enough to make good use of the stored supplies and bring honour to their lords' tables, proud as their very masters in the service they gave. The stew was thick – more laden with potatoes and turnips than beef, but well-salted – and was freshly accompanied by warm well-risen bread rather than the flat hard travel-loaves that had been brought in at first. A bottle of strong red wine as well as a carafe of water awaited them.

 

Aragorn, once again in his now-dry clothing, took the head of the table; he tore the loaf and loaded the plates of his friends before taking his own portion, and poured the wine the same way. "Victory."

 

"Victory," his Fellowship echoed, their own winecups held up as well.

 

No other words passed their lips for a long time. Legolas spoke true; the wine was the sweetest draught Aragorn had ever drunk, the meal the finest eaten. Sweeter still, to share this meal solely with his friends and lovers.

 

***

 

Many years later, Elessar the King of Gondor and Arnor sat at a great table, clad in rich robes which he had donned after a sumptuous bath in steaming scented water, and raised a gold and crystal goblet of a rare vintage to commence a royal feast in the Great Hall of Minas Tirith, attended by hundreds. At that very moment the King of the West remembered a wooden table and a small room, homely food and simple wine – and the warm bright eyes of his first two subjects, who still sat at table with him.


End file.
